Guard and Executioner
by Rumo Stuff
Summary: "Consider him a family heirloom," Granduncle had told her as they watched the soldier fade into the ice. "He'll be given to your care, as long as you're a good girl. You study well and work hard for the cause, for the world, for Hydra." And she did. Bucky/OC
**Note:** Warning for mild torture description and unhealthy relationships. Not a Hydra love story in the slightest, but very much a Hydra protagonist who needs to see the light, and fast. Until then, Bucky suffers the consequences, as he does, and Steve is somewhere out there passing out redemption prospects pro bono. Covers Winter Soldier and Civil War.

* * *

Guard and Executioner

Chapter 1

The day was early, but Anri hadn't slept the night before, and her hands were shaking very badly from how much caffeine she'd taken. They steadied as she selected a mouth mirror from her tool set, the other carefully pressing the soldier's cheek as she said "Open your mouth please," although there was no need for that—he obeyed her instruction perfectly. It was only something she'd always found daring; like biting an enemy's gun barrel between her teeth. Of course, there was nothing dangerous about him right now. They hadn't given him the trigger words yet, and Anri didn't think he'd save himself from a fire without them.

"You were throwing up so much," Anri said as the mirror clinked against his teeth. "Are you thirsty? We can stop for a little while, get you something to drink. You won't be able to have any fluids after eight p.m. Diagnostics tomorrow."

He shook his head languidly. "I'm fine."

Even Anri's surgical mask couldn't filter the sour stale stench of his breath. But otherwise his teeth were in order, as were his eyes and ears, his muscles and lungs, among the other physical checkups Anri ran through, all very superficial.

Surrounding them was a vault, a relic from better times, the walls lined with locked metal boxes and its sole entrance was a row of bars strong enough to hold even the soldier, at least for a little while. The guards and their assault rifles were the other part of the insurance; they stood in a silent circle around Anri and the soldier, all of them American. That they didn't speak Russian gave Anri a leeway and freedom that disconcerted her. It was awful of her to abuse their trust, but she also wanted to stretch her toes, and it'd been so long since the last time he was activated, almost three years ago.

"I'm afraid tomorrow is going to be just as busy as today, for the both of us. Mr. Pierce wanted—oh no, you haven't met Secretary Pierce, have you? He's replaced Mr. Harlow as the head of Hydra America. Don't worry, he's much nicer. But anyway, Mr. Pierce says we're on a tight timeline, we have to skip the least necessary tests and get you out and about by Wednesday. That's the day after tomorrow. Breathe deeply for me please."

She pressed the stethoscope to his heart, listening to the thump swoosh as her hand rose and fell with his chest.

"Doctor Armin advises against releasing you early. He thinks the risk of losing control of you is greater than letting whoever your target is run loose for a few more days. Don't tell anyone I said this, but isn't that silly of him? Doctor Armin, I mean. He's lovely, really, but ever since you threw him into that table—he knows it was only a reflex, of course you didn't do it on purpose, but I suppose it did give him a sample of what it'd be like if you _did_ break loose. You don't even remember hitting him like that, do you?"

"Not really, no."

"Well, you'd only scare him more if you apologized anyway. Don't worry about it. No pain anywhere? Any aches or cramps, anything funny feeling?"

"No."

"Good. The last time you woke up you had that terrible headache. We found out what happened, by the way. The decompressor was—Darrin miscalculated the pressure drop, and that led to your body being sort of squeezed for a while, when it was still in the chamber. But at the same time the chamber didn't open automatically because your body was half frozen, and obviously normal air wasn't going to defrost you properly. When we found out—it was afterwards, but it scared all of us. I could've lost you from a math error. I should've kept my eyes on the meter."

The soldier's sunken eyes blinked at her. For a moment, he didn't seem to see her, but then his gaze focused, and he said, "It's fine," before he returned to staring at the floor. Anri smiled, a little surprised, and brushed his lank dark hair out of his face.

A tap on her shoulder made Anri turn around. The head of the guards, Rumlow, tapped his watch. "Five minutes left," he said in English, his voice low, as it always was in the soldier's presence, perhaps afraid of setting him off like an explosive.

"I'm done. I need to—numbers." She made a typing gesture, and Rumlow answered with a nod and a tight smile before stepping back. To the soldier, she said in Russian, "I'll see you tomorrow, after your physical. If your MRI scans read fine, which I'm sure they will, then I'll just give you your psych evaluation—a watered down version, so thirty-four questions instead of fifty."

Anri rolled back on her chair and typed in the chart results. All the figures read healthy to perfection, as always and forever. Her grandfather had thought the cryo freeze would waste his vitality away after a decade, at most, but then Granduncle had always been the smarter sibling, according to Hydra grapevine, and he'd been confident enough to promise the soldier to Anri's care someday, if Anri remained a good girl and studied long and worked hard for the cause. Not that she needed the encouragement, but there'd been a certain satisfaction in knowing that something belonged to them, their family only, and that no one else could have it because they weren't fit for the job. A family heirloom, Granduncle had called it; it was a nice description.

* * *

When their five minutes were up, Anri was escorted out of the barred room by Rumlow and three guards, while the soldier allowed himself to be strapped back into his chair, where he will remain until tomorrow's physicals, fed and watered through tubes and scoured clean with antiseptic spray. Anri watched him from behind her shoulder until the doors closed.

Rather than the main entrance, Anri was taken to the backdoor, which led to the garage. A black armored van was waiting for them, the engines already rumbling. Rumlow signaled his men to wing open the back doors. He climbed in, then offered a hand to Anri, "Up you go, Doc," before hoisting her onto the van floor.

"Is that short for Doctor?"

"Yeah. Doc, doctor." After the last man was in, Rumlow slammed the doors shut, then walked to the back and pounded on the door separating them from the drivers. Anri heard the garage door opening on the outside. "Why, wrong title?"

"No, I like it." She scooted over to make room for Rumlow, and waited for him to sit down. He was a very rough fellow, and loud, but he was good for asking questions; he always answered them, and when he couldn't, he admitted it instead of offering a placebo response that made no sense. "You go outside often, don't you, Mr. Rumlow?"

Rumlow raised his eyebrows at her. "Yeah, more or less. Why?"

"Nothing. It's just that we don't have road delay much here. It's very nice. I was wondering if the United States is less—unruly. You know, less—" she waved a hand around searchingly. "Criminals, bandits, things like that."

"What, compared to Russia?" When Anri nodded, he frowned, blowing out a breath as he searched his men's faces, as if asking for help. No one did, of course, but he seemed obligated to answer her anyway. "I mean, it's not as bad, sure. But it's still pretty bad. Death and destruction all over the place, bombs, child soldiers. Like Somalia or something."

"Somalia," Anri repeated, slowly. "And that is—?"

"Shit, uh." Rumlow grimaced. "Never mind. American slang. Don't ask me what it means. I'm not good at explanations."

The remainder of the ride was silent, other than the guards' guns clacking and the hum of the engine. Anri closed her eyes, wondering what the soldier's next target was going to be like. Not that she'll ever find out. She was never allowed to see footage of the soldier's assassinations. What information she'd seen of it had been gleaned from her assistants and translated into numbers, statistics. It was convenient, and very considerate of them—their notes were always so detailed—but Anri couldn't help but wonder why they were allowed to watch the footage when she wasn't. It would be nice to see her handiwork, rather than only have it praised in absentia. Granduncle's work on soldier had made him magnificent. Anri wanted to know if hers matched up.

A half hour later, the van stopped. The doors swung open from the outside, revealing more guards, except more lightly armed now that they were at headquarters. Anri stepped out of the van and into the large, cold garage, one of headquarters many that lined the north side of the main hangers. From the windows, Anri could see the hundreds of planes below them, fighters and helicopters, even a helicarrier that according to Mr. Pierce could stay in the air forever, all contained in the vast underground hanger, the size of which Anri had never thought possible. It was a wonderful sight. On days when Anri felt discouraged, when she was tired and the cause felt too hopeless, what she found did the most good was to sit next to a window and watch the hanger and its workers. There was nothing to be afraid of here, not with all these brave people and their dedication and might.

She was escorted to the west wing basement floor, where her bedroom and research lab were located. From there on, there was no more need for guards; she was free to wander wherever she wanted. By this point, the only guard remaining was Rumlow; the others had sort of petered off to other tasks. It was a little surprising. As far as Anri understood it, Rumlow was rather high in demand as far as agents went. Mr. Pierce took him to all his meetings abroad. "I'm sorry for disrupting your duties," she said, out of politesse. "I hope it wasn't too much trouble."

"You _are_ my duty right now, so there's that." They were at the west wing entrance now. Rumlow slid his card through the slot and the metal doors hissed open. "I'm taking you back twelve-thirty tomorrow, so eat your lunch before then. Hey, before you leave—" He stopped Anri before she could step inside, then checked left and right to make sure they were alone. "So I gotta ask, you never set foot outside before, ever? I mean, not in Russia or China or Japan or what?"

Taken aback, Anri cleared her throat and said, "I—no, I haven't." She hoped Rumlow would leave it at that. It was something she was asked very often, she never knew how to answer it without sounding self-important, much less to a field operative who probably spent his life in that miserable outside.

"Huh." Rumlow didn't seem offended. Instead, he shrugged and unblocked her way. "Well, each to their own." The doors slammed shut between them.


End file.
